


The Best Medicine

by Blake



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bardfur, Canon Compliant, Drinking, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, PWP, idk - Freeform, pervy dwarf fanciers, post-BotFA, size difference?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25698085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Bard's life is a thousand times more comfortable with Bofur in it.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Bofur
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	The Best Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so Bard and Bofur are perfect for one another, and this is just a small PWP in celebration of the fact. Hopefully more and more people will get on board with [objectlesson's OTP](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25003903/chapters/60544885) and increase the number of stories with this pairing tag! This was great fun to write. Thank you Jen for the editing job!

Bard throws his head back, laughter crumbling in his throat like sorrow. He settles deep into his mirth until tears pool in his eyes and threaten to spill. He only lets them tumble down his cheeks once he’s turned his face toward Bofur, who may appreciate the absurdity of his own words reducing a king to tears. Together, they laugh some more, until Bard has to reach out to clasp his hands on the dwarf’s shoulders for balance, or for comfort. Perhaps it was just to see if Bofur would recoil from the touch (he doesn’t) or even just to gauge his own reaction (apparently a surge of heat across his body and the urge to tighten his grip).

The joyful warmth in his belly is not just the good ale, which, in his opinion, is almost indistinguishable from the bad ale he had grown used to in forty years of poverty. He can’t even say that Bofur’s joke, whatever it was, was a particularly funny one.

But he’s _happy_. The smell of a warm, promising Spring wafts in through the window. His children are safe, warm, and well-fed in their rooms, having spent a full evening eagerly gorging themselves on Bofur’s tales, which always seem to ramble easily between a hundred topics ranging from mountain trolls to giant chocolate cakes. Bard has nowhere to be but here, in his sitting room, with a good friend who makes him laugh, who expects no kingly behavior from him, whose smile puts him at ease in a way that can’t be put to words.

“This sofa is a thousand times more comfortable when I’m laughing,” Bard manages to say when he retreats to his half of the piece of furniture in question. He had never liked the thing; most of his belongings had been thrust upon him, his protests of their finery overpowered by arguments that his people would benefit from having a leader with lodgings regal enough to host foreign leaders.

“Laughter is the best medicine,” Bofur agrees, sipping from his cup until foam plasters across his moustache, threatening to make Bard laugh some more. His tongue sweeps out across his upper lip, and Bard finds himself mirroring the action. “Well, the second-best medicine.”

Bard wipes the cuff of his simple shirt across his mouth. “Second to drink?” he asks.

“What? No.” Bofur sets his cup on the nearest table with a sound that suggests offense. When he turns back to Bard, his cheeks are bright with merriment, his dark eyes twinkling gold by lamplight. “Second to sex, of course.”

The air between them changes so little, just the gentle swell of a lake under a full moon. “Is that so?” Bard doesn’t doubt the claim, though it has been years since he has had any experience to support its truth. He merely wants the time to study Bofur’s face for traces of sincerity. All he finds is the same sweet, genuine features that have always rendered Bofur the least obnoxious of his company, not so changed by the absence of his hat, nor the clean tumble of fine hair about his neck.

“It is—at least, with the way dwarves do it, it is.” Bofur leans in playfully close, near enough that Bard can let his hand fall from the back of the sofa to rest on his friend’s shoulder once again, firm and searching. “Have you ever bedded a dwarf before?”

Bard laughs at the facetiously intent curiosity on Bofur’s face. Then he laughs again at himself in half-formed disbelief that the most absurd aspect of what they are about to do isn’t related to their differences in culture or physical stature, but the fact that Bard hasn’t had sex with a man in so long that he hardly remembers how to start. “I have not—yet.”

“Well,” Bofur starts, shifting ever closer until their thighs touch—Bard swallows a gasp, his gaze flickering down to where they’re pressed close together, hips angled toward one another as they have been all night. When he looks up again, he can taste the ale on Bofur’s breath and count the shades of amber in his eyes. “What you need to know about that is—”

And Bard kisses him. He doesn’t need to know anything about anything but the hot slide of Bofur’s mouth under his and the smell of his skin, the taste of his sugar-sweet breath. They try one angle, then switch to another, and all the while, Bard clutches to the side of Bofur’s face, grounding himself in the fluttering flex of muscle in his jaw as he works his tongue past Bard’s lips. 

“Yes, that’s exactly it,” Bofur whispers in a rush, with barely enough time for one spill of shared laughter before Bard gets jealous of the air for being touched by Bofur’s breath and claims his mouth again. He licks across his teeth, sucks on his lip, and opens himself up, and every feeling is already so much more intense than he anticipated when he looked across the table at Bofur’s smile and thought, _What if…?_

Bofur’s hand spreads confidently across his chest. “Except for,” he says, pulling back and looking at Bard’s mouth, which can’t help but smile, “the other thing you need to know is that it’s customary to bed a dwarf _in_ a bed.”

“I see,” Bard manages to say, surprised by how gone his voice is before he’s even gotten to moan or put anything down his throat. He kisses Bofur again but pushes himself up slowly so that he’s bent over and braced on the back of the sofa to keep their mouths joined. Bofur’s kisses start to travel across his jaw and down his neck. “I happen to have a bed.”

“Brilliant,” Bofur says against his pulse.

When they finally get there, Bard learns that the bed feels a thousand times more comfortable, more _right_ , with Bofur in it.

“How do you want to do this?” Bofur asks, kneeling over his chest like an imp, carding a hand through Bard’s hair until it all comes loose.

“I thought you were the one with all the instructions,” Bard murmurs, rubbing his head against the pressure of Bofur’s small hand. He pushes his own hands up under the last of Bofur’s shirts, feeling the soft skin of his side, and the slight puffiness of his stomach give deliciously under his thumbs.

Bofur pulls away to get rid of the shirt once and for all, and Bard’s mouth waters at the sight of the dark hair sprinkled across his slim chest, at the thick thatch under his arms before he lowers them again. His eyes wander lower to the black trailing down from his navel into his white cotton pants. Below that, he thinks he can make out the pink tip of Bofur’s cock peeping out from the tented fabric propping up the loose buttons in this dim light.

Bofur catches him staring and bops a reproachful finger to his nose. “There’s a lot more to this than instructions.” He says it so openly, so sincerely, that it seems like he’s actually checking in with Bard to make sure he’s still interested, now that skin and hair and pink, shiny cockheads are involved.

“There had better be a lot more than instructions,” Bard agrees, grabbing Bofur by the hips and pushing him down far enough that he can feel his erection. “I was hoping for at least one orgasm, for example.”

Bofur grinds down against him as he says, “See, that’s another thing you need to know about bedding a dwarf, is you should definitely expect two, at the very least.” Then he shuffles further down the bed so that he can get out his cock and rub it right against Bard’s.

“Fuck,” Bard gasps, grateful more than ever that he had been the first to be disrobed. His legs fold up on instinct, feet pressing into the bed to push up against the pressure. With Bofur straddling him, their limbs don’t get a solid lock on each other, but they each have enough leverage to push and pull and grind and slide.

Bard spits in his hand and spreads it over them both, and that’s the first time he touches Bofur’s cock, smaller than his but thick enough that Bard’s mouth aches to feel the shape of it. Bofur’s hands dig deeper into the mattress as he fucks sweet and slick against Bard’s stomach. The hair on his lower abdomen drags at Bard’s cock when their bodies push together, and Bard has to release his spit-slick hand to clutch at the pillow behind his head.

“If I don’t last long, it’s only because it’s been so long,” Bard says quickly, just in case he’s soon rendered unable to speak by the scrape of another man’s pubic hair.

Bofur drops to one elbow, laughing in such a breathless way that it suggests he might be suffering from the same affliction—of it having been so long. “Don’t worry, I won’t take it as a compliment.” The soft ends of his moustache tickle across Bard’s ribs as his mouth trails across the lower swell of Bard’s pectoral muscle.

“Oh,” Bard says, half-dumb with need, the proximity of Bofur’s wet, hot mouth to more sensitive skin making his cock flex between them. He curls up and props himself with an elbow, using his other arm to pull Bofur’s mouth to his nipple.

Bofur’s teeth and tongue do their worst, and Bard sees _stars_. He keeps tugging Bofur closer, but that seems to pull their cocks out of their precious alignment, so Bofur resists the pull with his own pressure, and they lose themselves to glorious, tense rocking for an eternity-moment that Bard would not mind losing himself to forever.

Eventually, he must seem desperate enough that Bofur takes pity on him, for he rolls onto one side, keeping his mouth attached, and takes Bard in hand until he’s spilling across his own stomach, eyes clenching shut and throat moaning voicelessly into the night.

Bofur seems to like it, though. Once Bard calms down enough to see mostly straight, he sees Bofur’s slight hand sweeping through the mess on his stomach, clutching occasionally at the still-quivering sheets of muscle as if he could make handfuls in it.

“You should definitely take it as a compliment,” Bard says. Bofur looks up with a slow grin, apparently having only just realized that Bard has returned to the world of the living.

“If you say so,” he agrees brightly, crawling up the bed until they’re kissing again at last. Bofur’s breath tastes even better when he’s close to coming than it did before.

With what little strength he has left, Bard pushes Bofur down onto his back and works on preparing himself to stop kissing him so that he can move his mouth further south. “I do say so,” he says against Bofur’s lower lip. “And I also say that you should let me suck your cock.”

Bofur laughs, and it’s such a delightful sound that it fills Bard’s own lungs with mirth. “By all means. I won’t stop you.”

But just when Bard starts to kiss his way through the maze of black hairs across his narrow chest, Bofur _does_ stop him—to pull him up for a long, swollen, swirling kiss that makes Bard feel like all is right with the world.


End file.
